Battle Zone
by Ghost-Tongued
Summary: F!LONE WANDERER / CHARON. Thirty prompts from the "30 Bad Attitudes" Livejournal community concerning the past, present, and future events of Miss Vault 101 and her battle-hardened ghoul companion. [ Later chapters will become M rated. ]
1. Why Do I Even Bother?

**Title:** Battle Zone  
**Character Pairings:** F!Lone Wanderer/Charon  
**Genre:** Romance/Drama  
**Rating:** T-MA+  
**Warnings:** Explicit Profanity/Vulgarity, Gore, Sexual Content  
**Disclaimers:** I own nothing Fallout 3.  
**Summary:** 30 prompts from the "30 Bad Attitudes" Livejournal community concerning the past, present, and future events of Miss Vault 101 and her battle-hardened ghoul companion.

* * *

**Recommendation(s):**  
_Page Width:_ Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

_Light/Dark:_ This chapter is best read on the **light** background setting because it deals with nighttime and dark thoughts.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is the first "story" I've started in over three years now, so forgive me as I try to work out my rusty elbows and get into character with Charon. All feedback and critiques are, as always, welcomed!

* * *

**Prompt: **Why Do I Even Bother?

Son of a _**fuck**__!_

He snarled something animalistic when a bullet sliced through the leather armor of his shoulder pad and out the back of his shoulder. Molten pain exploded outward in its wake but it never slowed his arm as he swung the butt of his shotgun like a heathen and made a fatal impact with the side of the charging Raider's skull, the combat knife that was close to plunging into his chest instantly thrown from her hand.

At least, he _assumed_ it was fatal. The satisfying crunch of bone and the consequential crumpling of the body was not unfamiliar from his two hundred years of combat experience.

But he didn't have the common leisure to check as he was already moving with the sheer momentum of the swing of the gun, using it to propel him forward toward the female smoothskin cowering and holding her head protectively behind a huge slab of concrete jutting upward.

_Why do I even bother telling her shit?_ he thought, pissed off and now bleeding, as he ducked and dodged the onslaught of flying, ill-aimed bullets that screeched past his head and limbs, and used the concrete rubble and other debris as cover.

His balance was suddenly thrown when the ruined asphalt beneath his booted feet lurched violently after a frag grenade was ptched at him from behind one of the dozen long-abandoned, rust-devoured vehicles and detonated somewhere a few hundred feet away.

He stumbled to the side when he lost his footing, his wounded shoulder protesting heatedly when he reacted out of reflex and caught himself with the wrong hand. The pain that shot up and down his arm only made him angrier and for one instance in time, he seriously considered grabbing her by the scruff of that dirty Vault 101 jacket and just throwing her at the Raiders. Would serve her right for ignoring his hand signals and getting arrogant with that little SMG she'd acquired two days prior.

When he was close enough, he saw that she was being safeguarded by the radiation-burnt remnants of what looked like a blue Corvega. He spat out her name and the second she looked up, those eyes so full of green and pure terror, he chucked his shotgun at her. She scrambled quickly, her arms snapping out and catching it before clutching it protectively to her chest.

He slammed the gloved hand of his uninjured arm down on the hood and vaulted himself across the width of the vehicle, landing heavily next to her behind the shield of concrete.

"C-Charon, I'm _so_ sorry!" she instantly started, shuffling closer to him as he crouched down, grimacing when a bullet ricocheted off the side of the slab and caused tiny pieces of concrete to pelt the side of his face. "I didn't know what I was doing! God, I'm so, _so_ sorry! What do we do? I promise I'll listen this time! I won't ever -"

He turned his head to her then. And whatever she saw in his eyes must have been more terrifying than what was going on around them because she snapped her mouth closed mid-sentence and shied away from him, seeming to clutch his shotgun now out of _self_-protection.

Turning away again, he snatched a frag grenade from his belt, the pin separating with a sharp _'schink' ,_ and he stood quickly before hurling it, the intent of his target _not_ being the cluster of Raiders zig-zagging around the toppled and overturned vehicles, but the City Liner bus that sat off to the side and in their path.

He went to his knees when the grenade activated, rocking the foundation of what was left of the destroyed overpass, and he simultaneously grabbed the back of Miss Vault 101's neck - intentionally more aggressively than necessary - and forced her face down before shielding her with the solid weight and breadth of his larger body.

He hid his face against the rough cloth of the Vault jacket as the Domino Effect was triggered. The force of the bus exploding caught the surrounding vehicles, causing their own gas tanks to react.

A strangled cry of panic escaped smoothskin as the overpass violently shuddered and groaned ominously beneath their knees in the wake of the igniting cars. He subconsciously drew her tighter against him, the conditioning of his contract - to protect and preserve the life of the current employer - seizing him.

But the overpass held strong as the interval between exploding gas tanks slowed and eventually ceased, the air replaced by the much quieter sound of crackling and sizzling flames as they lazily roasted the steel carcasses.

Grunting, the pain in his shoulder pulsing, he reached under the quivering and whimpering smoothskin and grabbed his shotgun, forcibly yanking it from her subconscious vice grip before getting to his feet.

Smoothly and casually reloading the single-barreled weapon, he pivoted himself around the concrete slab and began surveying the area for any survivors.

But he already knew that there weren't.

He just needed to put some space between him and the half-cocked, dangerously reckless girl who happened to also possess his fucking contract.

He needed time to breathe or he was going to be sorely put to _not_ instill the fear of Satan himself in his fresh-skinned employer.


	2. Of Beatings and Bruises

**Prompt:** Of Beatings and Bruises

The sun was sinking slowing behind the horizon, the sweltering heat of the day cooling as dusk's warm hues stretched across the darkening sky.

She heaved a sigh, lightly frowning as she sat at the base of a charred tree, hugging her knees to her chest as she let her eyes roam over him, a stimpak and his old, tattered undershirt clutched in her hands.

He was standing thigh-deep in the irradiated lake, bare from the waist up and currently pouring a cup of the dirty water over his wounded shoulder.

She had tried to patch him up, but he had refused, curtly reminding her that they their medical rations were extremely low - one stimpak and three Med-Xes to be exact. He had told her that there was a source of radiation nearby and before she could protest, he was already moving.

So here they were: Charon was giving her the cold brush off while taking a radiation bath and she was sitting here alone, feeling shitty about herself.

And she didn't even _dare_ try to enforce an order on him to make him compliant. The last thing she wanted was for him to develop hatred for her; the type of hatred that he'd had for his former "employer"; the employer who had had holes blown into him as a farewell gift.

Breath gusted from her mouth in another sigh. Her fingertips were absently rubbing the extremely worn fabric of the undershirt and she glanced down at it. It was old; shredded at the bottom; stained from years of shed blood, probably not all his, and sweat; scarred with knife gashes and bullet holes.

She started when her fingertips smoothed over a cooled, damp substance that had cascaded down over the collarbone, pectoral, the sleeve of the shirt, the trail feeding from a bullet hole in the shoulder. When she drew back her hand and looked at it, she saw that her fingers were now smeared with the drying crimson of blood.

Charon's blood.

Her heart clenched as something hot welled up in her throat. It was everything she could do to not start crying in the wake of a tidal wave of emotions. Guilt; remorse; shame; anger. All directed in at herself in a self-defeating process. All of which she had open arms for. She deserved everything she was getting from Charon right now and probably more.

Charon was sworn by contractual agreement to lay down his health and even his life for the sole wellbeing and survival of the person in current possession of his contract. It didn't matter if he hated them, personally wished harm to them, or if he was treated like a beaten dog by them. He was sworn to unwavering loyalty.

And in that moment, she felt like she was his former employer all over again.

In the last four weeks since her acquirement of such invaluable loyalty, she had been dismissing most of his advice, instructions, and even out-right commands when it came to dealing with Wasteland entities that meant her harm.

And they ended up in perilous situations nearly every time she chose to not to heed him or his warnings; however, unlike all the times before, they didn't come out unscathed.

This time around, Charon got hurt.

If it'd been her, it would have been what she rightly deserved, and it probably would have been a major lesson learned - a lesson in fallibility and the vulnerability to fatality.

But no.

It was Charon.

_He_ was the one wounded. And it was because he was **forced** to forgo his own self-preservation when her safety was being threatened, even when it was she who willingly forfeited that safety for the sake of her undue arrogance and ignorance.

She was **forcing** him to risk his life needlessly when the whole thing could have been avoided if she would just _listen_ to him.

_God, he doesn't deserve any of this or any of my shit_, she thought resolutely, her jaw setting determinedly. She got to her feet and dusted off legs quickly before straightening and starting down the hill toward him, her stride filled with a purpose. _For him to jeopardize his life just to save me from my stupidity, knowing that he doesn't have a choice in the matter either way, is like . . . is like . . ._

The image of Ahzrukhal's eyes, something so cruel and malevolent seeded deep in them, arose unbidden to finish her trailing thought.

She felt the burning lump rise back into her throat with a vengeance and she clenched her jaw against the hot prickling of tears. She didn't want to be associated with someone so spiteful; someone so unforgiveable.

The sound of her boots shuffling down through the dirt must have alerted him of her presence because he stopped mid-pour of the irradiated water and turned his head a little, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

They widened slightly when he saw her nearing dangerously close to the water. He instantly dropped the ceramic mug into the water and turned to her, wading toward her instinctively, his powerful, leather-clad thighs causing large, disruptive waves in their wake.

"What are you doing?" he demanded lowly, the remnants of a deep blue behind the milky film of his eyes regarding her warily, yielding to confusion and even alertness - most likely because he assumed there was danger in the area. The gloved palm of his uninjured hand was thrust out at her to halt her from any further advancement. "You will get sick."

"I want you to take this stimpak, Charon, " she answered, coming to a stop just at the water's edge but still a safe enough distance away, her arm stretching out to meet his.

She was able meet his gaze at an equal level, his much taller stature lacking the intimidation that she usually felt when standing next to him, because she was standing higher on the embankment. But when she locked her eyes with his, her chin subconsciously lifted in defiance.

Those eyes, after possibly concluding that she wasn't being chased by something to make her get so recklessly close to a radiation source, seemed to clear under his now infixed attention, narrowing as agitation sparked in their depths.

In spite of the cooling, hardening of his stare, there was still a gentleness to him when he pushed at her hand with the back of his, brushing the offered stimpak away. His voice was strained and guttural from the usage of ruined vocal cords, but his tone was clear.

"_No_."

The heat of her anger - anger at herself and anger at him for _still_ holding her future health above his current one - burned low in her belly before rocketing upward, the tears that she'd been holding back finally spilling over and down her cheeks.

"Damn you, Charon," she hissed through clenched teeth, the scalding burn in her throat almost rendering her of her pride as she fought against the urge to breathe a sob, and she grabbed his thicker wrist roughly before slapping the stimpak to his open palm. "I am _not_ Ahzrukhal."

The name brought a heavy tension crashing down upon them, and the silence was nearly deafening to her. There was a frostiness to his stare then; an unspoken demand that she explain herself.

She swallowed thickly and averted her eyes. Her hand was still gripping his wrist, the bare palm of her other hand pressed flatly against his gloved one, the stimpak wedged firmly between them.

She couldn't bring herself to let go of him. She needed something to steady her nerves or she was going to completely break under the onslaught of her remorse; even if it meant finding that "something" in the man who was the focus of her emotional turmoil.

"I'm not Ahzrukhal," she repeated quietly. She could feel the burning of his gaze. "I know you've heard me say this many times in the last hour - heard me say it to you every time before this - but I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry, Charon."

She breathed in a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around his wrist as she lifted her gaze back to his.

"I'm sorry for being so damn selfish and stupid," she stated earnestly. "I'm sorry for not truly understanding that no matter what the hell I do or what I get myself into, you've no choice but to rescue me from it. Even if that means laying down your own life in the process. I won't ignore you anymore, Charon. You and your contract deserve more respect than what I've given; what Ahzrukhal had given; what I'm sure many before him have given. Your life and future are no less important than mine or anyone else's, and you shouldn't be forced to put it on the backburner for no good damn reason."

The trailing silence after she finished only seemed to thicken. She felt so small under that unblinking, unfaltering gaze of his as he regarded her emotionlessly.

She glanced down, nodding briefly that she was finished. But when was released his wrist and started to pull back her other one, his thumb locked itself with hers and strong, blunt fingers enveloped her small-boned hand in a warm embrace.

She shot a surprised, questioning look up to him, but before she could open her mouth, she was lightly tugged closer to him as he leaned in, bringing their faces within scant inches of one another.

His eyes were alight with something quiet but intense, his voice a harsh rasp as he whispered, "You could never be like Ahzrukhal, softskin."

And with that, he pulled back and turned away, wordlessly wading deeper into the poisonous water again.

She just stood there, watching him as his words echoed gently in her mind; an assurance; a promise.

Her gaze slid down to the now empty palm of her hand and a small smile flitted across her lips.


End file.
